


The Shape of You

by BlessedAreTheFandoms



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Babel Trek Open Project (Star Trek), Bigotry & Prejudice, Bottoming from the Top, Everyone on that station needs therapy, First Time, Français | French, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, I speak neither of these, Inspired by Music, Kardasi, Languages and Linguistics, M/M, Porn with Feelings, References to Shakespeare, Season/Series 05, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, but man are they beautiful, عربي | Arabic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22567930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlessedAreTheFandoms/pseuds/BlessedAreTheFandoms
Summary: Julian Bashir has been outed as an augment.  Elim Garak has always been visible as a Cardassian.  Living on a Bajoran station run by the anti-augment Federation, the pair find one another on the outside of what is "acceptable"--and learn that they are more than acceptable to each other, and perhaps even beautiful exactly as they are.(Written for the Babel Trek Open Project!)
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 40
Kudos: 252
Collections: The Babel Trek Open Project





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the team that dreamt up the Babel Trek project--I am proficient in neither Arabic nor Kardasi (so I apologize if I've bungled either) but I'm delighted to get the chance to play around in linguistics.
> 
> The title is taken from the Ed Sheeran song of the same name. The super explicit stuff is in the second chapter, if that's not your thing.

_A club isn't the best place to find a lover  
So the bar is where I go  
Me and my friends at the table doing shots  
Drinking fast and then we talk slow  
And you come over and start up a conversation with just me  
And trust me I'll give it a chance now  
Take my hand, stop, put Van the Man on the jukebox  
And then we start to dance, and now I'm singing like  
Girl you know I want your love  
Your love was handmade for somebody like me  
Come on now, follow my lead  
I may be crazy, don't mind me  
Say, boy, let's not talk too much  
Grab on my waist and put that body on me  
Come on now, follow my lead  
Come, come on now, follow my lead_

It was only fair, he supposed, that it was like this now. Julian Bashir hunched over his glass in the darkest corner of Quark’s bar, trying to shed the tension in his body from his earlier encounter. Since his augment status had come to light, it had been the strangest mix of acceptance and disgust that he still did not know how to navigate. His friends, the senior staff, had been confused and—at least in Jadzia’s case—curious, but they were coming around at their own paces. Two weeks later, it was almost as if the information had always been part of these relationships. But those who didn’t know Julian personally, those who heard “augment” and looked for Khan…they were less forgiving.

It was never anything big; a patient here who asked without meeting his eyes if anyone else was available to treat them as they flinched away from his touch, a remark there as he walked through the halls about how it seemed that even “freaks” were part and parcel of this crossroads station. The latest had been being trapped on a turbolift with a father and his daughter, humans, and the father jerking his daughter away from Julian when she got too close, mistrust and anger in his eyes when they met the doctor’s.

It was never anything big.

But it was never anything that didn’t hurt all the way down, deep in the space where Jules’ heart still beat under all the changes that had birthed Julian Bashir.

Julian shook his head and took another drink, hating how morose he felt, hating the disparity between his friends and everyone else, hating how it proved him right, hating.

“Would you mind some company, Doctor, or is that drink sufficing?” Elim Garak tilted himself slightly over the table, managing somehow to keep a respectful distance and invade Julian’s space just enough to make his heart speed up slightly.

“I’m afraid I’m not very good company tonight, Garak, but you’re more than welcome to have a seat.” He gestured erratically and Garak nodded, seating himself next to Bashir. In the back of Julian’s mind, he realized this kept Garak from having his back to the restaurant itself. _Ever the spy_ , he thought.

“May I ask what makes you into poor company?” Garak asked.

Julian sighed. He realized, too late, that he shouldn’t have mentioned it if he didn’t want to talk about it, especially with Garak, of all people. The man had a way of stripping Julian of his veneer without seeming to do anything at all. Of course, a good interrogator would—Julian’s mind brushed against the harsh questions of the internment camp and he closed the line of thought quickly.

“I’m just feeling rather down tonight, is all,” he said, and the explanation sounded paltry even to him.

Garak took a sip from his own glass, not looking directly at Julian but watching the bar and its occupants. “Isolation must be quite difficult for such a social creature as yourself,” he said.

“Who said anything about isolation?” Julian responded, too quickly.

Garak turned toward him. “Come now, Doctor. You are sitting, of an evening, in the most shadowed corner of a full establishment with not even one of your ubiquitous dates surrounding you. It is hardly a wild deduction to make.”

“Maybe I’m just tired,” Bashir said, irritated by the defensiveness in his tone.

“Maybe,” Garak allowed, turning back to watch the room.

The two drank together amidst the “dabo!” shouts and clinking of the game on the level below for a moment, silent to each other.

“Garak, can we go someplace else?” Julian asked suddenly, surprising them both.

“But of course. Have you somewhere in mind?”

Julian did not. He ran through the public places on the station and they all seemed—well, public. The thought of running into someone else, of being rejected again that day, was exhausting. He shook his head miserably.

“Perhaps I can walk you back to your quarters,” Garak suggested.

Julian’s breath caught; not there, no. His quarters were still a strange mix of comfortable and alien—his things were there, but they had been slightly rearranged by the changeling and he hadn’t gotten them back to his pattern yet. The task was made all the harder by the fact that having something like a bed again for the first time in months, the freedom to move around, the space to wake shouting from the nightmares he couldn’t shake were strange after months in the camp. No, his quarters weren’t where he wanted to be tonight, either. He shook his head again.

Garak observed him for a moment, mostly tuning out the bar. His next suggestion rested traitorously at the tip of his tongue—but then, why not? The camp had shifted things between them, hadn’t it?

“Mine?” he said before he could stop himself.

Julian looked at him searchingly, questioningly, seeking the lies that contoured Garak as much as his ridges. Garak waited, trying to calm the fidgeting happening inside him, the panic that he had gone too far.

“That would be nice,” said Julian, almost too softly for Garak to catch.

Quelling the bubble of something like joy that rippled through his chest, Garak inclined his head and stood. Julian followed, and the two left the bar like shadows, only Quark watching them go with the curve of a smile on his face.

***

The pair didn’t talk on the way to Garak’s quarters, holding themselves to a companionable silence far less glum than the one at their table. Garak found himself—nervous, he realized, almost laughing at the absurdity of how much he had faced in his life with aplomb only to find his stomach tightening as he keyed in his code, the quiet doctor following uncertainly behind as he stepped through his door.

“It must be nice to be back in a warm place,” Julian said, then winced. “I’m sorry, I mean—I know that the station is still not warm enough for you, I meant the controls you have for your quarters now, and that it’s warmer than…than the camp, it must be nice—”

“Doctor,” Garak interrupted gently. Julian closed his mouth, casting his eyes to the ground. Garak had seen the look a thousand times before on that angular face: shame, embarrassment, self-recrimination. The doctor had heard so often that his enthusiasm was too much, that he missed social cues, that he’d overstepped conversational bounds _again_. And it was true: Julian Bashir was not the most apt at knowing exactly what to say, but for an old Cardassian spy whose whole life was carefully wrapped in planned platitudes and beautifully crafted manipulations it was wondrous to have someone so… _clumsy_. 

“It is nice to be warm enough to sleep properly,” Garak said. He cleared his throat, fighting that damned tightness in his stomach that was creeping up to his chest. “Would you care for something to drink?”

“Very much,” Bashir responded. “I’m glad not to be at Quark’s, but I could go for one of his Tranyas at the moment.” 

Garak shook his head, unsure what kind of drink that was. “I take it you’re not much of one for kanar?” he asked instead.

“Afraid not,” said Bashir. “A synthale would be fine, though.”

Garak ordered such from the replicator and handed it to Bashir before pulling his own stash of kanar from a cupboard. He poured himself a glass and gestured Bashir to the sofa, where the man perched rather awkwardly on one end and Garak settled himself at the other. The pair sipped for a moment.

“You and I haven’t really talked about—well, I mean, since I was—I haven’t asked you how you feel about me…about my, well, alterations.”

Given the number of ways that statement could have gone, Garak quietly congratulated himself on having let Bashir finish before attempting to answer. The enhancements, that was the problem?

“What would you like to ask me?” he said, trying to suss out Julian’s discomfort.

“Is it—do you—do they bother you?”

 _Do_ I _bother you_? Garak heard, reading the uncertainty in every tension in the human’s body. “Have you been getting some difficult reactions, Doctor?” he asked in return.

Julian looked away, absently swirling his drink. “Some,” he admitted quietly.

“They find you—distasteful?”

“They find me frightening, and strange, and yeah, ‘distasteful’ is as good a word as any. On Earth, the fear of augments like Khan runs so deep, Garak—and on a lot of other worlds, the idea of tampering with nature like that is considered a wrong against the universe itself or whatever deity they hold dear. People like me—we’re abominations, aberrations, things that break the patterns and shouldn’t be around normal people, or, or children.” Julian’s voice hitched ever-so-slightly.

Garak took another drink. “On Cardassia,” he said, “we honor whatever makes us better suited to serve the strength and glory of the Union. Did your enhancements make you able to become the doctor you are?”

Julian struggled with an answer. “Yes, in a very literal sense,” he said finally.

Garak saluted him with his drink. “Then we—then I—delight in them.”

“Because it makes me able to serve the Federation?” Julian said, scorn wrapped like a vine through the words.

“That,” Garak agreed. “At least, 'that' from my position as a Cardassian. Not that that is worth all that much in this context, but since you were discussing cultures, rest assured that mine does not find you an ‘abomination.’”

“It’s worth something to me, your being Cardassian,” said Julian. “I may not agree with a lot of it, but I know that it’s very important to you.”

“Ah, there you would be in a decided minority.”

Julian cocked his head and looked more closely at Garak. “You deal with stuff like this all the time, don’t you?”

“‘This’?”

“The—the people finding you ‘distasteful,’ the way people say things they want you to hear but don’t want to admit saying, the asides and the jabs.”

Garak toyed with the idea of lying, of re-centering the conversation around Bashir’s recent exposure to being an _undesirable_ , of talking about how much better it was now than it used to be—but he was so tired, really, and it did not matter if this man who knew so many of his most closely-kept secrets knew one more.

“Yes, I am familiar,” he said. 

Julian sighed. “How bad is it?” he asked.

Garak tutted at him. “Doctor, I am one of two Cardassians aboard a station plunged into a war against my people. Even without that delightful wrinkle, I am a Cardassian aboard a station that is built around the subjugation of the people who walk its halls. There is no amount of ‘bad’ that is not an expected thing.”

“Garak,” said Julian, exasperated. “How bad?”

“Do you ask me out of concern for me or out of a desire to compare notes?”

Julian pulled back, stung. “That’s not fair.”

“I hardly believe you to be surprised.”

Shaking his head, Julian stood. “I thought I was bad company tonight, but it would seem that you would like to be alone with your own persecution for the evening. I’ll see myself out, I suppose.” He took a step toward the door, passing by Garak—who reached out and caught him lightly by the forearm.

“Doctor, I did not intend…”

Julian looked down at Garak, at the crystal blue eyes that now held—was that uncertainty? Could Elim Garak, spy extraordinaire, be as uncertain of how to play this out as he, Julian Bashir the eternally awkward, was?

“What did you intend, Garak?” he asked instead.

Garak frowned, looking at his hand on Bashir’s arm as though surprised to see it there. He let go. “I merely—I do not enjoy some of the side effects of living here, and I did not want to dredge them up in this conversation.”

“Why not?”

With a huff of annoyance, Garak looked again at Bashir. “Having begun to experience some things yourself, surely you can understand why I try to forget these things.”

“Cardassians don’t forget, though,” countered Bashir. “You don’t remember things the way humans do, but you don’t forget in the way we understand forgetting. Garak,” he said, sitting again on the couch, so close that his knees brushed against the tailor’s, “how bad?”

All of Garak’s being bent toward the single point of contact between their knees, the wormhole itself paling in comparison to the power of that connection. The tightness in his stomach was almost unbearable and he wanted nothing more than to push Bashir against the back of the couch, to pull off that awful Starfleet uniform, to devour this man who had kept such a secret from him for so long, who had kept his own secrets from the camp, the lunches, the wire, the _friendship_ they had built. Garak did not remember when his amused delight had turned down a different path, but there was no denying it to himself now. To have the doctor _so close_ was intoxicating; he breathed in the nearness, storing it away for the interminable days ahead.

“Garak,” Julian said after Garak’s silence became uncomfortably long. “I—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t make you tell me, but have you told anyone about…whatever it is? Have you told Odo?”

Garak almost laughed at the young officer’s earnestness. His heart was curiously warmed by the realization that even the camp hadn’t quite managed to stomp that pure concern out of him, this beautifully generous human who truly wanted the universe to be kind. “In some of the more severe infractions, yes, I have involved the constable.”

“Well!” said Julian with no small amount of relief. “Was he able to arrest the culprits?”

This time Garak did laugh, smothering it at the look of disapproval on Julian’s face. “My dear doctor, there is rarely a ‘culprit’ to arrest. I involve Odo when there is graffiti on my door that I cannot remove myself, or when there are thefts in the shop that I cannot trace without significant effort that would take me away from my work, or when Chief O’Brien refuses to fix another mysterious break in my equipment without Odo vouching for the fact that I did not sabotage it myself. Those who hate rarely do so in the open; it is much easier to deride and harass another when you do not have to look them in the eye while doing it.”

Julian’s face was a picture of sorrow. “Why have you never mentioned any of this?”

“What is there to mention?” Garak asked, genuinely perplexed. “I am a ‘spoonhead’ on a station of smooth-skinned aliens; as I said, some…displeasure is to be expected.”

“I think the spoon is beautiful,” Julian murmured, and reached up to trace the edge of the teardrop on Garak’s forehead with one feather-light fingertip.

Garak inhaled sharply and leaned away.

“I—oh, damn, I’m sorry, Garak,” stammered Julian, hopping to his feet again. “I am so sorry.”

The tightness in Garak’s chest was bursting through, his heart hammering, the point on his knee that had been leaning against Julian’s was on fire, his forehead was surely bright blue. His ridges ached with the gentleness of that one, brief line.

“I didn’t mean any offense, I’m sorry, I should not have touched you without asking,” Julian was still explaining, apologizing, stammering.

“Doctor,” said Garak, trying to breathe when there was surely no oxygen in the room, “please.” He gestured for Julian to be quiet and, miraculously, he was, standing taut as a bowstring half a meter away from Garak. The pair breathed for a moment, drinks utterly forgotten.

“This,” Garak gestured at his forehead, “is called the _ChUfa_.” He watched Julian’s brow furrow and realized that the Universal Translator was likely continuing to translate. That would never do, not if he was truly going to explain this.

“Do you trust me enough to turn off translators?” he asked.

Julian eyed him with concern. “I don’t know much Kardasi,” he said, “and most of what I know is either medical or…uncouth. I picked some phrases up from Tain and some of the other Cardassians at the camp; I had a lot of time to consider how useless my UT was there.” Garak did not miss the grimace that flitted across Julian’s face every time he mentioned the Dominion camp, so he kept his curiosity about linguistic lessons with Tain to himself.

“I can function in Federation Standard,” said Garak.

“Of course you can,” responded Julian, almost fondly. Garak arched an eyeridge and waited. Julian sighed and sat back down. “Computer, turn off Universal Translator for Lieutenant Julian Bashir, Chief Medical Officer, authorization code epsilon-phi-zero-four-seven.”

“Acknowledged,” assured the computer.

“Thank,” said Garak.

“What?”

“Gratitude, yes?”

“Oh,” said Julian, laughing, “thank _you_. It’s a phrase.”

“Ah,” said Garak. “My Standard is for service, not all the time.”

“It’s far better than my Kardasi,” said Julian.

Garak tilted his head at the compliment. “This,” he said, gesturing to his forehead and returning to his reason for having Julian turn off the translator, “is the _ChUfa_. It is—it is thought very… _intimate_ to touch.”

“ _Oh_ ,” said Julian, reddening. “I’m—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean…I don’t…” He trailed off, looking at Garak anew. “The what, again?”

“ _ChUfa_ ,” said Garak, wondering what was going through the doctor’s quick mind.

“Choofa,” repeated Julian, his pronunciation a little askew. Garak smiled at the effort.

“It is one of the _ChU’en_ , the ‘spoons’ as they are wrongly called.” Garak’s mouth twisted around the word as though the very shape of the sounds was distasteful. “More pointed than spoons, the _ChU'en _.”__

____

“How many are there?” asked Julian, his medical curiosity kicking in—and another kind of curiosity he was not yet willing to name, not with the feeling of the rough ridge still in his fingers like an electric current. “I've read medical texts, but I've never heard these pronounced before and, well, I—I’ve never seen a fully naked Cardassian, or anything.” He felt his blush go three shades deeper when Garak raised an eyeridge at this.

____

“ _emp_ —three,” said Garak.

____

“Garak,” said Julian, licking his lips most distractingly, “where are they?”

____

“Dok-tor, are you asking for a body lesson?”

Julian grinned. “‘Anatomy,’ I think, is what you’re looking for, and—well, yes and no. I’m not kidding, Garak, I think your ridges are fantastic, and yes I am professionally curious about them but—but I also want…” He paused, unsure what exactly he did want. “Garak, when—when we were at the camp and you…you let me see so much of you, of who you are…I never said thank you for that, but I am beyond honored.”

____

Garak waited, wondering where the doctor was going with this. He knew exactly where he wanted to go, knew what—or, rather, _who_ —he wanted, but he was used to holding that to himself, to appreciating the mind alone of the man before him.

____

“It’s funny,” said Julian, almost to himself, “when my—when my parents changed me, they did it to make me better on every level.” His voice was bitter and he grimaced disparagingly. “But they didn’t write my genetic code to account for dealing with other people. I’ve never been good at it, you know, and it isn’t just because I’ve had to lie so much; I don’t know how to tell other people what I think of them, what I want from them. I don’t—I don’t know how to say I like them.”

____

Garak’s breath caught in that damned tightness in his chest.

____

“You are…you are a marvel. An infuriating, enigmatic, deceitful, exhausting marvel, but a marvel still. A—a beautiful, and kind, and funny, and brilliant marvel.” Julian had scooted closer, so close to Garak, and his hand came up to trail over the ridge framing Garak’s eye. “I want,” Julian continued, his voice barely audible, “I want to _learn_ you, to tell you in your own language how stunning and important and _good_ you are, to match every stupid, prejudicial slur with _my_ compliments, my appreciation of you.”

____

Garak had no idea what to say—he, the wordsmith, stunned silent by such an incredible and audacious offer.

____

“Unless,” faltered Julian, misinterpreting Garak’s silence, “that’s too much. In which case I’m sorry, I don’t—I hope I haven’t…” He trailed off, pulling his hand away.

____

Once again, Garak caught him by the wrist, lightly. The pair looked at each other for the lifetime of a single moment, deciding, teetering, before Garak pulled Julian’s hand back to his face and leaned his ridge into Julian’s fingers.

“ _emol_ ,” he said, his voice coming out strangled.

“A-mole,” Julian echoed, his grin the size of a small sun. “Is—is that the ridge itself?”

Garak nodded.

“What about your actual eye?”

“ _pris_ ,” Garak said. Julian repeated it, tracing down the ridge again.

“Your prees—your eyes are so fantastically blue, did you know that?” Without any warning whatsoever, Julian leaned in and kissed Garak on the _emol_ , sweetly.

The wave of lust and hope and release and something that may have been love engulfed Garak and this time he did indeed push the doctor back against the couch, covering his mouth with his own, tasting the alien warmth of the lips and strange texture of the tongue. “ _s’h’iosr’halin_ ,” Garak whispered in between kisses, his hands combing up the sides of Julian’s head to card through that dark mane of hair, pulling it ever so slightly and being rewarded with a moan bubbling up Julian’s throat and into Garak’s mouth. After a few moments Julian pushed him away slightly, catching his breath, looking a bit dazed.

_____ _

“Well,” Julian chuckled, “this is certainly not how I’ve learned any other language, but I’m rather a fan of your methods.”

_____ _

“Do you know many languages?” Garak asked.

_____ _

“Bits and pieces of several—Bajoran, of course, and Vulcan, and some Klingon, and a handful of Bolian words, and some others. And Earth languages, of course.”

_____ _

“Earth languages?”

_____ _

Julian looked surprised. “Sure. We didn’t always speak Federation Standard, and some people still don’t. Before my planet unified, there were hundreds and hundreds of languages peculiar to their own geographical locations.”

_____ _

“Ah,” said Garak, understanding. “We, too, have variations.”

_____ _

“Not variations,” corrected Julian, “entirely different language systems. For instance, my family’s background is in English and Arabic. English was part of the groundwork for Standard, so you’d have no trouble understanding it, but Arabic isn’t even the same alphabet.”

_____ _

“You know A-ra-bic?”

_____ _

“Some,” said Julian. “My family…we didn’t really speak it, growing up, but it was in the background. When I was in grade school I taught the basics of it to myself; I didn’t know yet that it shouldn’t have been possible for me to pick it up as quickly as I did. Gift of being a freak, I guess.” He tapped the side of his head and frowned.

_____ _

Oh, that would never do. If Julian was going to rewrite the slurs of others with Kardasi, Garak could do the same.

_____ _

“Not ‘freak,’” he said softly, tracing his fingers where Julian had tapped. “Beautiful. What, then, is _pris_ in A-ra-bic?” 

_____ _

Julian half-smiled and followed Garak’s hand with his own as Garak traced the curve from Julian’s eyebrow to his cheekbone, where the ridge would be. “ _Al-ayn_ ,” he said.

_____ _

Garak leaned in and kissed the corner of Julian’s eyebrow. “This,” he said, tapping Julian’s lips, “mouth— _meşo_. In A-ra-bic?”

_____ _

“ _Al-fum_ ,” Julian said, the fricative dragging his lips down Garak’s finger. Before Garak could withdraw it, Julian took the digit into his mouth, nibbling the first knuckle, swirling his tongue over the tip of it. His eyes glinted with self-satisfied delight as Garak’s hand convulsively closed around his jaw and Garak gasped with the shock.

_____ _

“I—I think,” said Garak, clearly trying very hard to maintain his grasp on any language, Standard or Kardasi or Arabic, “that we should move to the bedroom if we want to, _mmm_ , learn more ‘anatomy.’”

_____ _

Julian gave a last lick to Garak’s finger and grinned. “A fine idea, love. Lead the way."

_____ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's actually a whole list of Star Trek-themed mixed drinks that exists here (http://uglycouchshow.com/quarks-bar-drinks/) and I am so intrigued and I want to make most of them. I highly encourage others to do so as well.
> 
> I like moments when Garak doesn't know everything, so he's not completely versed in Earth history and languages here. However, I'm entertaining the idea that he knows Standard (and other galactic languages) a hell of a lot better than he's admitting here. Always shades of truth, that one.
> 
> For the Kardasi, all hail tinsnip and Vyc and their Kardasi dictionary and pronunciation videos. Thanks also to Cardassian_Kisses, who first introduced me to the conlang and who is so kind about explaining it to me over and over.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'ALL I really did intend for this to be only two chapters but they *keep talking* to each other and I have to go to bed tonight like a semi-responsible adult. Lame, I know, and it means the chapter lengths aren't even, but I promised a chapter today and a chapter you shall have. Then another chapter tomorrow, in which Julian gets his.

_I'm in love with the shape of you  
We push and pull like a magnet do  
Although my heart is falling too  
I'm in love with your body_

Garak let Julian lead the way, actually, the wariness of turning his back on another living at a level far deeper than anything he could consciously stop. Julian did not care; this felt _right_ , good, marvelous, and whether Garak was leading or following he was still holding his hand, still agreeing to this. Julian pulled Garak close to him once they were in the bedroom, letting the backs of his thighs lean a little against the bed itself. He began to search for the fastenings on Garak’s shirt but was stymied.

“How do you even get into this thing?” he asked in exasperation.

Garak smiled. “ _s’h’iosr’ha_ , you need to learn waiting.” He began to unclip hidden toggles on his sides, far from the shoulder ridges Julian wanted to trace all the way to their ends.

“That one,” Julian interrupted, holding his own train of thought in check, "the _shh_ -something. You called me a variation of that on the couch. What does it mean?”

Garak paused in his unfastening, considering. “ _s’h’iosr’ha_ is dok-tor—you.”

“Ah,” said Julian. “Well. I love it, but I would also love it if you called me by my name, Julian—at least for the time we’re going to be naked with each other. Makes it a little less…sterile, I think.”

“Stay-rel?”

“Clinical, professionally distant, sanitized.” Julian smiled, proud to add something to this linguistic exchange, delighted to be both learning and teaching and not having to hide or fake either one.

“Ah,” said Garak, and resumed his undressing. Just before the last of the hooks, Julian put a hand on his.

“Please?” he said, and Garak looked at him, confused. “Please call me by name?” The open longing on the man’s face was almost painful to Garak, who would have given nearly anything in the universe to assuage it.

A name, then, was simple. “Yes,” he said, trying to wrap his tongue around the consonants, “Chulien.”

Julian grinned. “Is ‘j’ not something Cardassians do?”

Garak pursed his lips. “In Kardasi, we ‘do’ a ‘j,’ but it does not sound like your ‘j.’”

“What does it sound like? What would be a Kardasi word with a ‘j’?"

Garak thought for a moment, weighing whether to go ahead with the first word that had come to mind. Well, he was standing with his shirt nearly open in his own bedroom with a man whose hands were quite distractingly resting on his waist; why not? “ _jucem_ ,” he said.

“Ohhhh, it’s more like our ‘z,’ sort of.” Julian compared the sounds, feeling their difference in his mouth. Although he had already had quite an appreciation for the art of language, Garak suddenly found a whole new level of approval for it as he watched Julian’s lips pull forward and back around the sounds. “Zhu-shem,” Julian finally said. “What does it mean?”

“Friend.”

Julian looked at him, a steady gaze of examination, of awareness, and then kissed him soundly. “I am glad you are my _jucem_ ,” he whispered against Garak’s lips. Garak swallowed his hope that they would be more than friends and simply kissed him back.

After a moment, Julian’s hands moved to the remaining clasp holding Garak’s shirt together and unwound it, continuing to kiss Garak as he slid his hands up and under the shoulders of the garment and pushed it off Garak’s arms so that it fell to the floor. A sigh flitted through the back of Garak’s mind at such misuse of the fabric and he resolved to pick it up properly as soon as possible, but the thought was drowned out by the overwhelming sensations of Julian’s tongue against his and of standing topless in front of another person.

“Now,” said Julian, drawing back but continuing to kiss Garak in between phrases, “let—let me look—let me _see_ you.” He put his hands on Garak’s shoulders and pushed him backward a step; Garak breathed in sharply at the instantaneous desire to break the hands that pushed him, give no ground, to protect himself. _This is not a threat_ , he told himself, forcing down the panic.

“Oh, _Elim_ ,” breathed Julian, not seeing the tension in Garak’s face and shoulders, lost in his first sight of Garak’s upper body. “I—when you were in the infirmary I tried so hard not to infringe on your privacy, and I caught glimpses of you, pieces, but Elim, you are _stunning_.”

The sheer adoration in Julian’s voice grounded Garak, brought him back from the fear of a danger that wasn’t there. “Stunning”? Surely not.

“I am glad of your distance when I was in your care,” Garak said.

Julian quirked an eyebrow at him before beginning to trace the ridges that ran all down Garak's body. The nimble fingers danced down the wide scales accompanying the crests covering his shoulders, splaying for a moment over the patterns covering his ribs, following the ridges that topped his hips and stopping where they continued into his trousers. Garak felt completely out of his depth at the tactile reading of him, unsure what to do with his own hands, whether to examine the still-fully-clothed doctor.

“The second of the _ChU’en_ ,” Julian said after some time, bringing his fingers back to the teardrop in the center of Garak’s chest. “Right?” He looked up at Garak and Garak was astounded to see that his pupils were wide, the darkness of them nearly covering the usual playful hazel. It was, among other things, a mark of arousal in humans, and the thought that Julian found him arousing left Garak gobsmacked.

“Right,” he said eventually, remembering that Julian had asked him something. “The…the _ChUla_.”

“Choola,” Julian repeated dutifully. “Is it—is it also intimate to touch?”

Garak found the question more than a little absurd considering he had had to remove his shirt for Julian to access it. “Yes,” Garak said, “but not in the same way. This—you are already some kind of intimate, so it is less… _mUrjeld_ , too much, too…”

“Intense?” Julian supplied, and Garak nodded. “Got it. Well, Elim, I—I plan to get quite _intense_ with you, if you’re okay with that.”

“Are you sure?” Garak asked.

Julian looked at him, stopping the teasing touch of his fingers just at the edge of the _ChUla_. “Of course I’m sure. Are you unsure?”

“No,” said Garak, and he hated himself for this, hated that he was going to throw away exactly what he wanted, hated that he could not simply let this be and remember it forever. “But you—you can have anyone. Why…?” He couldn’t; he couldn’t finish it, couldn’t end this, and he closed his eyes in defeat.

“Hey,” said Julian softly, sitting on the bed and pulling Garak to sit beside him. He trailed a finger over Garak’s _emol_ again and Garak opened his eyes at the sensation, floored that he had allowed himself to close them in the first place.

“How bad is it?” The repetition of Julian’s question from earlier had so many new layers and Garak’s heart cracked under the weight of them.

“ _ss’lei_ ,” he said, “I do not—I do not know how to say.”

Julian was quiet for a moment, simply looking at Garak, who fought the uncharacteristic urge to fidget in the silence. At last Julian leaned over and kissed Garak, so gently it almost hurt in a way that had nothing to do with physical pain, right at the top of his _ChUfa_. “ _As-salamu alaikum_ ,” he murmured, and kissed the side of the _ChUfa_. “ _Enta habibi_.” He kissed the other side of the _ChUfa_. “ _Ana asif_.” He rested his own forehead against Garak’s and Garak stopped breathing for a moment, wondering if Julian had any idea what this meant, how much of a declaration it was. “ _Enta jameel_ ,” said Julian, and Garak suddenly didn’t care if he ever learned what any of that had meant because what was behind it was love, pure and good.

“Chulian, _nu ka zIra’I_ ,” said Garak, and kissed him without explaining, and the two suddenly had no patience for language or clothing or niceties or other people’s cruelty as they wriggled Julian out of his uniform, kisses becoming nips becoming bites as their hands met skin as foreign to each other as their languages, smooth bronze against scaled grey with palms and tongues discovering scars and muscle groups. Garak was delighted to find Julian ticklish on his sides, making the man laugh stutteringly as he pecked at the skin stretched over the ribs. Julian followed the hip ridges now freed of the trousers to the seam flushed dark between Garak’s legs, running his fingers over the edge.

“This I _have_ to see,” Julian said, breaking from Garak’s shoulder ridge to examine this new territory. “Is it—I mean—not to be blunt, but how does it—how do you— _work_?”

Garak took a moment to puzzle out what Julian meant before frowning at the outrageously awkward delivery. “I ‘work’ from inside,” he said. “My _prUt_ is not so external as yours.” He brushed against Julian’s cock, rigid and warm, and Julian jumped slightly. “It is within my _ajan_. I— _nu ais’U_ , I will bloom with the right _help_.”

“Bloom?” said Julian.

“You will see,” promised Garak.

Julian nodded, his fingers slicking with Garak’s own essences. “Will I hurt you if I go inside?” he asked.

Garak shook his head. “Don’t go too far,” he said, and Julian moved down to kiss Garak in the center of his _ChUla_ as he slipped two fingers in, sliding them down the swollen lips. Garak groaned and scratched his nails down Julian’s upper arms as Julian licked and bit his way down to the tear-shaped ridges just above Garak’s _ajan_.

“We didn’t name this one,” Julian said, still working his fingers into Garak, “and I think you had better tell me before the head of what I can feel here ‘blooms’ and neither of us can remember things like words.”

His breath hitching with each of Julian’s movements, Garak nodded. “It—it is—the _ChUva_ ,” he managed.

“Last of the three?” Julian said, twisting his fingers and adding a third, rubbing the underside of the _prUt_ tucked away.

“Last,” Garak gasped. “Chulien, I—”

“Come on out, Elim,” said Julian, and Garak everted into his hand.

“That is _so cool_ ,” exclaimed Julian, and Garak felt less like a lover and more like a science experiment in the moment.

“Chulien,” he said, “I do not know that a _prUt_ is ‘cool.’”

Julien looked up at him and reddened. “Oh, I didn’t—I don’t mean—I’m sorry, I’ve just never seen that happen before in a humanoid, I just…” He faltered and Garak reached down, cupping his face.

“It is not bad to be excited,” he said.

“But I want you to know that you aren’t—that you _are_ beautiful, every inch of you, including and especially this.” He swiped a hand down the length of Garak’s _prUt_ experimentally and Garak jerked when he reached the base. “More sensitive there?” Julian asked.

“The _irllun_ ,” Garak said. “Much more sensitive.”

Julian’s eyes darkened to an impossible shade. “ _Fantastic_ ,” he said, and pushed Garak onto his back, straddling the tailor and leaning into him, encircling his base with one hand and raking the other down his scales, scratching the ridges outlining Garak’s torso while kissing him fiercely, biting Garak’s lips and jaw ridges, rocking into him until Garak thought he might burst from the sensory overload.

“Chulien!” he yelled, his voice strangled as his own hands scraped shallow tracks down the smooth expanse of Julian’s sides.

“Come for me, Elim,” Julian answered, his own voice thick with lust and wonder, and Garak did, arching his back and wrapping his fingers tightly enough around Julian’s arms to leave finger-shaped bruises, exploding into Julian’s hand before falling limply back onto the bed.

“Beautiful,” said Julian, wiping his hand off and running it over Garak’s whole body, swirling around the scars from the electrical burns in the wall at the camp, the three _ChU’en_ , the faded white lines from a lifetime of Enabran Tain. “Thank you, Elim. Thank you for letting me see you.”

Garak concentrated on slowing down his breathing, not even caring for the moment about just how much Julian saw. He reached out and pulled Julian to him, delighting in the human warmth, and felt Julian’s hardness against him.

“Ah,” he said, “but we are not done.” He looked Julian in the eye and Julian blinked.

“Whatever you want,” Julian said, and Garak shook his head.

“What we _both_ want is important,” he said. “Unless you have other plans?”

Julian grinned wickedly. “None whatsoever, my dear tailor. What do you have in mind?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The series of Arabic snippets are, to the best of my knowledge, "Peace be upon you" (a blessing), "You are my love," "I'm sorry," and "You're beautiful" (in a "there is beauty within you" rather than "you're pretty" kind of way.) Garak's response in Kardasi is "I love you," which I get is pretty fierce for Garak to say even when he knows Julian won't get it, but that was an achingly sweet moment to write and nothing else seemed appropriate.
> 
> Onward to Julian having his own issues and then getting his own sexy times.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your encouragement while I wrangled this thing into being, all. I know I already said this, but so much thanks to tinsnip, Vyc, and Cardassian_Kisses for their help with Kardasi. The work they've done is simply marvelous and I am in such awe at their creativity and willingness to let folks like me benefit from their resources.

_We talk for hours and hours  
about the sweet and the sour...  
Every day discovering something brand new  
I'm in love with your body_

“Shall we try a new position?” Garak asked, waiting for Julian’s nod before sliding out from underneath him and flipping them both over. Unprepared, Julian slipped too far and draped partly off the edge of the narrow bed. He reached out in pure instinct to avoid falling, a reaction too fast by half, and hit the nightstand, leaving a concave dent in the surface. Garak sat up to give him space to reshuffle and Julian scooted up the bed.

“I am so, so sorry,” Julian said, realizing the damage.

“It is only a table, Chulien,” said Garak.

“No, I’ve—I mean, it could have been you, I could have hurt—I’m sorry, I lost my balance and I—I didn’t mean…” Without finishing his sentence, Julian swung his legs over the side of the bed and ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t…this is why…” He started to stand and Garak laid a hand on his arm.

“Chulien?”

Julian kept his eyes to the bed. “They’re right to be afraid of me,” he said. “I can’t…I can’t let myself be out of control like that, what if I had…I’m sorry, Garak, I should go.”

Garak’s grasp tightened, holding Julian by symbol if nothing else. Garak had the sneaking suspicion that even his natural Cardassian strength would not hold Julian in place if he did not want to be held, but Julian stilled, still not looking at him.

“ _ss’lei_ , I am not afraid.”

“You should be.”

“Of you?”

“Of what I—what I’m capable of.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

“What?” Now Julian met his eyes, surprise coaxing the black pupils away from the hazel edges. “Of course not.”

“Do you know of what I am capable?”

“It’s not the same.”

“Why not?”

Julian exhaled in a gust of air. “You—you can control it; it's not _part_ of you. You have mastered yourself.”

Garak waited a beat. “Have you not?”

“Clearly,” said Julian derisively, gesturing to the nightstand.

“Am I hurt?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I would never—I don’t want to hurt you.” Confusion furrowed Julian’s brow.

“And you did not.” Garak sighed, gently pulling Julian back onto the bed. Julian reluctantly allowed himself to turn back toward Garak. “You have just held my… _sensitive_ places in your hands, and did not hurt me. You pulled me out of the wall in the camp, and did not hurt me. I attacked you in these very quarters, and you did not hurt me. What is that if not control?”

“But look at what I _could_ do—”

“What we _could_ do is very different from what we _do_ , _s’h’iosr’ha_. I _could_ do many things, and I do not. You _could_ be someone else, but you are not. You are you— _be’les, hoss, vrell, pertek. lam nichek ga'I; nu hi visf'I_. Not _e’Gir_ , nor dangerous.” Garak reached for Julian’s other hand and guided him until they were sitting face to face, Julian’s long legs on either side of Garak’s waist to accommodate the position. He took one of Julian’s hands in his own and pressed his palm against Julian’s, waiting a beat before interlacing their fingers. With his free hand, he trailed down the entwined pattern. “ _aşe_ ,” he said. “Finger.”

Julian burst out laughing. Garak raised an eyeridge in question.

“I’m sorry,” Julian said, “but this is very much like a scene from an old Shakespeare play—I’ve had you read some of his works before.”

Garak sighed. “Much of it was _bok_ , was common.”

“I know, you didn’t like the romances. But there’s one called ‘Henry V’ about a battle and an aligning of kingdoms and there’s a scene where two women are trying to learn English—it’s in French, which is another human language, and there’s a line where…but I mean, I don’t quite remember…” He trailed off, loosening his grip in Garak’s hand.

Garak tightened his. “You do,” he said. “What did it say?”

Julian looked at him, torn. “I shouldn’t remember things like this.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not normal.”

“Whyever would you want to be normal?”

“People don’t like what isn’t normal.”

Garak’s eyes widened and he gestured to the pair of them, sitting naked on his bed with their hands still interwoven. “ _I_ like it,” he said. “What did the play say?”

A mass of emotions crashed over Julian’s face like a wave as he struggled with himself, with yet another reminder of what he could do. Garak waited, holding his hand firmly.

“ _Les doigts_?” recited Julian at last, his voice uncertain and halting. “ _Ma foi, j’oublie les doigts; mais je me souviendrai. Les doigts? Je pense qu’ils sont appelés de fingres; oui, de fingres._ ”

The swallowed consonants and tightened lips of the language enthralled Garak even as Julian finished the line and shrugged nervously. Garak grinned and kissed him, fierce and hungry, his free hand snaking up the back of Julian’s head to pull him in closer, consuming the words from his mouth, tasting the sounds echoing still on his tongue. When at last he broke the kiss, Julian panting for air, he brought their tangled hands to his mouth and licked a long stripe down one of Julian’s fingers. “ _aşe_ ,” he said to the knuckle, nipping the skin stretched over the bone. Julian’s breath caught in his throat and Garak slowly licked the next finger. “Finger,” he said, repeating the bite and moving on to the next. “ _Les doigts_.” At the fourth finger, he licked to the knuckle and then looked up at Julian expectantly.

“ _Al_ ,” Julian cleared his throat, “ _al-asba_.”

“ _Al-asba_ ,” Garak repeated. He turned their hands and kissed the back of Julian’s. “This is the _yut_ , the hand. It is the hand of a dok-tor that heals. It is the hand of a lover. It is the hand of an augment. It is strong, and gentle. It is beautiful as it is. _nu ka vereti’I_ , just as you are, Chulien.”

A single tear tracked down Julian’s cheek as he reached with his own free hand to trace the ridge on Garak’s jawline. “Thank you, Elim,” he whispered.

“ _nu perrik’I_ ,” murmured Garak, wiping the tear away with his thumb and kissing the spot on Julian’s face where it had fallen. Julian turned into the kiss and Garak finally let his hand go in favor of tracing his fingers down Julian’s sides to his hipbones, to the trail of hair that ran down the human’s stomach, teasingly light. Julian laid back, pulling Garak on top of him, his own hands tracking the ridges down Garak’s back as Garak tasted his way down Julian’s neck where the Cardassian ridges would be. Both of them could feel the fire stirring within them again when Garak paused in the hollow of Julian’s throat.

“Chulien, would you—I would like you inside,” he said.

Julian pulled him back to be able to look him in the eye. “Is that—won’t that hurt you?” he asked in concern.

Garak shook his head. “If I bloom first, there is space.”

The blackness blew back into Julian’s eyes at the thought. “If you’re okay with it, Elim, yes. A thousand times _yes_.”

Garak reached between them as he settled himself just underneath Julian’s cock, slicking his fingers over his own _ajan_.

“God, Elim, I could come just from watching you,” Julian breathed.

“Another time, Chulien,” Garak answered with a smile. He brought Julian’s hand to match his own, stroking inward to the head of his _prUt_ as he rocked back and forth on the pressure of their combined fingers. Only the sound of their quickening breath broke the quiet in the room as Garak bloomed a second time into Julian’s hand. Without a word Garak moved their slicked hands to Julian’s member, stiff and ready, and Julian cried out at the intensity of the first touch. Garak reached back to himself and eased up onto his knees, holding his _ajan_ open as he lowered slowly, slowly onto Julian.

“ _Elim_!” Julian cried as Garak’s seam brushed against Julian’s pelvis, bottoming out. “Oh my _fuck_ , Elim, you are—you are indescribable, you are—” He yelped as Garak rolled his hips experimentally and the ridges of his _prUt_ rubbed against Julian’s base. “Mother _fucker_ ,” Julian swore, “I am not—Elim, I can’t—”

Garak laughed to see the brilliant doctor reduced to babbling with hands fisted into the sheets around him. He rolled his hips again and Julian grabbed the ridges there, fingers bruisingly strong but not hurting him. Garak leaned over, changing the angle as he kissed Julian, earning a wordless moan from the man beneath him. “Then don’t,” he whispered against Julian’s lips, and Julian cursed again before wrapping his arms around Garak and beginning to thrust upward, Garak meeting him with an undulation that rubbed his own _prUt_ against Julian’s bony hips, the two of them locked in the embrace as they chased their pleasure across each other’s lips and down necks and shoulders.

“I _love_ you, Elim,” Julian gasped as the heat built between them, “I’m in love with your body, with your mind, with your heart, with the shape of you in this universe, with the feeling of being _inside_ you, with the beautiful wonder that you are.”

“ _Chulien, nu terre’I_ ,” Garak sighed next to Julian’s ear as he pulled the hair tightly and licked a stripe up Julian’s temple, tasting the salty sweat.

“I’m going—Elim, I’m going to—”

“Come for me, Chulien,” Garak echoed and Julian called his name as the rain burst, Garak following him soon after.

Both breathing hard, the pair lay splayed together for a moment, Julian softening inside Garak. Garak shifted when he felt his _prUt_ retracting, pulling away from the warmth of Julian’s chest, and Julian murmured discontentedly at the loss.

“We’ll—we’ll both need to do antiviral shots,” Julian said lazily, “since we didn’t do any tests or anything, before.”

Garak hummed agreement. “We must also clean ourselves,” he pointed out. Neither one moved, content to be draped across each other in the recovery.

Julian turned his head to look at Garak and reached up to trace the ridge down the center of Garak’s nose. “I am glad to be with you, Elim,” he said. “There will still be people who don’t understand either of us, and God knows there are many days when we don’t understand each other, but I am glad we keep trying.”

Garak huffed at Julian’s hand as he traced his fingers down Garak’s lips. “We shall work on your Kardasi first, _s’h’iosr’shalin_ ,” he said, and Julian smiled.

“ _nuka visf’U_ ,” he replied, grinning broadly as Garak’s eyes widened in shock and kissing the Cardassian with delight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, lots of translations:
> 
> Garak's list of Julian's attributes: "You are you—kind, talented, lovely, rare/special. That is what I see. Not defective, nor dangerous."
> 
> The French really is from "Henry V," specifically act III: "Les doigts? Oh dear, I forget les doigts; but I shall remember. Les doigts? I think that they are called the fingers; yes, the fingers.” (I had to memorize this scene in college; my scene partner and I translated it first to get the sense of it and I will never forget how hilarious it was to learn a French anatomy lesson in English and then put it back into French.) Garak's parroting of the plural "les doigts" rather than the singular is because he doesn't know French; the singular and plural sound the same in this instance, anyway.
> 
> _nu ka vereti'I_ = "I choose you."
> 
> _nu perrik'I_ = "It is my duty" which is a Kardasi version of "you're welcome."
> 
> _nu terre'I_ = "I agree."
> 
> Julian's final jab is pretty much my favorite and I love the idea that both of them know a hell of a lot more than they're letting on, even and especially to each other. His riposte is "we will see." Be surprising, Julian, it turns Garak on so very much.
> 
> There we have it! My thanks again to the Babel Trek project for this opportunity; it was a lot of fun to figure out.


End file.
